Dream to Live
by ashestoashesanddusttodust
Summary: Dreams are meant to lead and guide two souls together, but they're also supposed to be nice and comforting not cold and dark enough to cut. Clint x Bucky


**Dream to Live  
**

 **Notes:** The Civil War arc made me drop comics like a bad habit and retreat long past its resolution. I am not at all sure I will like what it's going to do in the movieverse. Hell, I'm still having trouble dealing with things from AoU. Just putting that out there because this fic kind of leads into it, or at least it's me trying to wrap my shippy mind around how some things might happen. Also, soulmate thingy, because the trope fascinates me.

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Bucky doesn't Dream.

His nights pass in a blank haze he never remembers. He's awake, asleep, and awake again with nothing gained but rest. It bothers him, but being dreamless isn't exactly uncommon.

There'd been a flu outbreak when he was almost too young to remember. A lot of people had died from it. Bucky's not the only fella out there who doesn't have a soulmate to Dream about these days.

He rarely thinks about it. No use in thinking about what-ifs when he has to keep going. No use mourning for someone he never got to meet. The lack of Dreams doesn't even bother him. Though he lies when it gets brought up in the barracks. He misses Steve then when he has to make something up to appease the curious.

Steve had never asked beyond the simple, "Do you Dream?" Had looked relieved when Bucky said no in a telling way that meant neither of them needed to speak about it ever again.

Who needed a soulmate anyway? No one was ever guaranteed a chance to meet theirs and lots of people settled down easily enough without them. Bucky was perfectly fine without his.

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Clint has always had Dreams. From the day he was born he dreamed in vivid colors and sensations. Far beyond what most people's dreams are.

Soul Dreams, his mother had called them when he woke up shivering and crying. Her warm hand comforting on his back as she tiredly reassured him there was nothing wrong with him.

"I don't know sweety," her voice had been thin and worn even then. The nights avoiding an alcoholic husband's rage already taxing her, and Clint's endless Dreams that made sleeping a chore were not helping. "It's not you. It's your soulmate. There's something very wrong with her."

Clint eventually got used to the Dreams. Got used to sleeping through the discomfort and the nights without a sound. He didn't like it though and he grew up bitter at all the flowery tales of soulmates finding each other through their Dreams.

He's learned a bit more about the whole soulmate thing in his life. He doesn't know who his soulmate is, but he's pretty sure he doesn't want to find out.

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When they put him down he dreams constantly.

He has dreams about the circus. Bright lights and sticky candy all contained under the heat of stuffy tents. He dreams of animals and plastic smiles. Real masks and metaphorical ones all tied on before the cheap sequined costumes turn into gold under the harsh spotlights that turn the crowd into a faceless black mass. Their cheers scratchy and distant from the center circle where he puts on a show. Moving to earn his next meal and a cramped place to sleep.

The dreams are bright and vivid. They bleed over into his waking day for a few minutes. The chintzy glam ripping apart slowly on the cold, harsh corners of his life as he _Wakes Up_.

The faces looking at him as he shivers to life are new and unimportant. It is their voices he listens to. Their orders that are all consuming and important. The circus fades. Ripped apart as he pulls on armor and weapons. A face is given to him and he's sent out to kill.

The circus doesn't bother him when he's awake. Nothing ever bothers him outside of following orders.

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Clint's Dreams never change. He Dreams of winter, of a place that is dark and deathly cold. Where nothing moves and only an incredibly slow beat in his chest assures him he's still alive. The cold seems to focus on his left. Icy stabs of pain go in through his shoulder. Entering his body from there and numbing him on the inside so that he doesn't even try to escape. Doesn't try to do anything but float there.

He drags it with him when he wakes up. The coldness wrapped around him like a blanket and he's always surprised when his breath doesn't fog up in the air as he stumbles out into the kitchen. His hands reaching for the coffee pot he sets up religiously every night. The heat of it against his palms is shocking enough to shake the hold of the Dream. It's mostly gone by the time he's drinking his first cup of the day.

The memory of it sticks with him somedays though and Clint hasn't quite managed to shake it today when he slumps next to Nat for the briefing of their next mission. Her lips purse in consternation but she doesn't hurt him for stealing her coffee. She knows how cold his Dreams leave him, even though she'll deny to her death that she believes in soul Dreams. "Keep your head straight this time. I'm not going to be around to cover you."

"Separate missions?" Clint asks Coulson as the man comes in with two different folders. One thick and the other thin. Nat gets the bigger one naturally.

"Something like that," Coulson says with that boy scout smile Clint stopped believing wasn't pure evil years ago.

He listens vaguely as Coulson runs Nat through her briefing. Tony Stark. He doesn't know if he should feel envious or not for her. His mind is mostly taken up by the remembered cold, and the orders sending him to the desert are welcome.

The Dreams never bother him as much when he's out on missions.

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When he _Wakes Up_ this time it's not the tinny sound of circus music that follow him. No. This time his dreams are all cold. A soulless blue light that tells him to _Obey_ and _Follow_ and _Do As I Say_ in a resonant voice that clashes with the other voices commanding him to do the same.

He frowns and is ignored by the faces around him. He can't shake the dream this time. It lingers and dwells. He feels hollow and empty inside like something has been ripped away making him hollow enough that the orders of his dreams echo in his bones. When he's given his new orders he almost asks which ones he has to follow, but they send him out before he can remember how to speak.

He's cold. A familiar sensation that bothers him, and something itches in his mind. Something that lies under his practical thoughts on how and when to do his mission. It itches and grows and nearly explodes when he is finally given a face. A target.

He's never seen the face before but he knows it deep down. Under the surface of his mind. Down where the itch is centered and grows. The place where he used to dream of circus lights and music.

He doesn't like it, but he hides it from his handlers. Hides it from those who would put him under again to fix it. He ignores his training and lets that itch meld with the unsettling dreams that continue to plague him through his mission as he hunts down the man with the shield.

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Clint's Dreams stop being a confusing mess of contradictions abruptly one day.

The Dreams have been contradictions of memories, sights, and words. For months now everything has been contradictions so severe he'd wake up with splitting headaches that left him longing for the Dreams of winter and stabbing cold. The ones that used to send him to the closest bottle after Loki, and that he'd been so very glad to be rid of for about five days when they stopped with no warning.

Five days is all it took for Clint to think of those Dreams with something suspiciously close to nostalgia even as he tried to explain to a doctor why he needed migraine strength pain killers that ended his little drinking habit fast.

He still cracks open a beer in the morning. Laura still gives him the stink eye for it as she scrambles enough eggs to feed him as well as the niece and nephew. He doesn't drink it anymore, but it still feels good to have it in hand as he goes out to watch the rising sunlight fall over the farm. The sound of the beer fizzing and the smell is both comforting and a reminder that he's not in that same bad place he was after the Invasion.

It's habit now, and even when things change he sticks to it.

The Winter Soldier sits on his porch. Precariously perched on the rail like some kind of hobo gargoyle. A look Clint wouldn't have thought possible but the man is a legend in more ways than one it seems. Clint's not going to put anything past him.

Steve's out on the farm somewhere. Doing chores or just running around. Burning off that endless well of energy the serum gave him. He'll be back in time for breakfast and to explain why he'd needed to hide away from the world with an infamous assassin who's already tried to kill him once or twice. Clint can already guess what he's going to say, but he'll let the man speak for himself. He owes him the courtesy of listening at least.

For the moment he leans against the rail next to the Soldier and doesn't feel the least bit endangered as the man swings his head around to fix him with a _look_. There's a hint of coldness lingering around him, but confusion reigns supreme in that look. It's the look of a man trying to piece two different lives together that directly contradict the other.

Like Clint needs more of a prod to figure out what's up with his suddenly pain free morning.

"You used to be in a circus," the Soldier states with a flat voice that's devoid of any accent at all. "When did things grow so cold for you?"

"Not long before things got confusing for you," it feels right to reach out and poke at the man. Prod at his body with curious fingers even though he'd seen the man violently flinch away from a casual shoulder pat from Steve the night before. He doesn't flinch now. Only looks down at Clint with dark ringed eyes that are tired but relaxed. "Seriously, how mentally stable are you?"

It's a cruel question but the Soldier huffs out a little breath that sounds like a laugh to Clint. "Only a little less than you."

"So, fucked up beyond all reason then," Clint echoes that little huff because it is funny. It's all insanely funny, with emphasis being on _insane_.

Clint's been dreaming of cold for most of his life, and the reason why is horribly obvious right now. He can only imagine what the Soldier's been dreaming. _If_ he's been able to Dream for long at all. Who the hell knows? Nat's kept him up to date on some things, but she's been quiet about Winter Soldier.

"Clint Barton," he props the opened beer into a planter hanging nearby and offers his condensation cooled hand out to shake.

The man regards his hand for a moment before reaching out and taking his hand with his own. His fingers are strong and far too warm for this time of the day. "Bucky Barnes."

It's an introduction with a hint of a question in it. Not one for Clint, but for himself. He doesn't know what name to use. The Dreams of contradictions extend to even that and Clint understands.

Clint's going to stick with Bucky regardless. It's better than Winter Soldier, Soldier, or even the casual Fuckhead Clint had tossed around a time or two when questionable reports came in that were eventually chalked up to the unknown agent.

They stay out on the porch for the half hour it takes Steve to come back into view. Neither of them saying anything, and the silence almost doesn't feel awkward at all. Almost.

Clint's got no damn idea what to do with a soulmate now that he's looking at the man, and Bucky doesn't seem to have clue one either going by the way he side eyes Clint. It's refreshing to not be the only one at a loss for once.

Cap starts to talk when Laura takes the kids outside for a breakfast 'picnic' on the porch at Clint's suggestion. Clint's already heard about the changes coming down the line. Nat's kept him up to date, and Clint's already turned Tony away. No way in hell was Clint feeling up to getting in the middle of that kind of political bullshit, and he's not really sure he's up to it now that Steve's the one making his case with earnest eyes and the kind of conviction that had made the man a leader.

It's exactly what he'd been expecting to hear when the man showed up last night, and the denial is on the tip of his tongue but won't come out. Not while Bucky is watching him. His gaze is steady and Clint can already tell that while the man might not be certain of most things, he is certain of this.

Clint doesn't know what to do with Bucky and their Dreams, but he's a little surprised to find out that he does want to figure something out. He takes a long drink of his now cold coffee and sighs. Nat's going to be furious when she finds out he chose a side. He glances at Bucky who still hasn't looked away and hopes it's going to be worth it.

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End file.
